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<title>The Need To Be Needed (The Want To Be Forgiven) by KadeAK (zacixn)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713435">The Need To Be Needed (The Want To Be Forgiven)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacixn/pseuds/KadeAK'>KadeAK (zacixn)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ghost With No Home (Dream SMP Season Two) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>"Society Has Moved Past The Need For Wilbur Soot", Angst, Everyone Needs A Hug, Everything Hurts, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Hopeful Ending, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Past Suicidal Desires, Mental Health Issues, Past Character Death, Quackity Needs a Hug as well, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, but...</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:35:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,230</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacixn/pseuds/KadeAK</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Even in death, Wilbur felt cold.</p>
<p>The icy crawl of loneliness was familiar, yet foreign, creeping along his spine and nestling in his perpetually silent heart. It would leak out of him in crimson surges, the steady drip, drip, dripping of his ethereal blood painting his sweater red and staining his ghostly hands scarlet.</p>
<p>Wilbur couldn’t remember why he was this way. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to remember."</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Half-lost in his own mind, Wilbur accidentally provokes a mourning Quackity while inquiring about his past.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>No Romantic Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ghost With No Home (Dream SMP Season Two) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026934</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>190</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Need To Be Needed (The Want To Be Forgiven)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i've been ghosting...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Even in death, Wilbur felt cold.</p>
<p>The icy crawl of loneliness was familiar, yet foreign, creeping along his spine and nestling in his perpetually silent heart. It would leak out of him in crimson surges, the steady drip, drip, dripping of his ethereal blood painting his sweater red and staining his ghostly hands scarlet.</p>
<p>Wilbur couldn’t remember why he was this way. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to remember.</p>
<p>Something had happened – something really, really bad had happened to his nation, to his family - and Wilbur couldn’t seem to remember it. He clutched at his chest as he rested in the empty blackness of the afterlife, shivering violently as his cold hands met cold blood. </p>
<p>Despite everything, Wilbur recalled some of his death – that was a curse, not a blessing. Wilbur could not seem to shake the lasting memory of blue eyes drowned in despair meeting his own, or the burning pain of a blade piercing his ribcage and puncturing his lung, or the repeatedly whispered apologies that spilled forth from his father like a dam had erupted. Wilbur remembered being hugged by the man, and he remembered clutching on for dear life, holding and holding and <i>holding</i> until Wilbur’s hands lost the ability to hold anything.</p>
<p>His grayed fingers twitched at the memory, clasping at his own sweater’s woollen yellow fabric. Somehow, it wasn’t the same as his father’s warm black cloak. (Did Wilbur even deserve his father’s love anymore? Something in his mind told him that he never did, that he’d forfeited his dad’s love ever since he became a disappointment. Wilbur wished he could identify where the voice was coming from.)</p>
<p>Being murdered ought to have made Alive Wilbur upset. Wilbur knew that he was unintentionally repressing his negative memories – he wasn’t bloody stupid, after all. For some reason, though, his memory of death remained crystal clear, bright and shining in Wilbur’s mind. He’d been happy to die, Wilbur realised. Why had he been happy to die? The ghost didn’t want to think about what that fact might mean for his continued state of being.</p>
<p>Idly, he flickered into existence outside of his humble new residence, letting out a chilled breath as the sensation of blood faded into nothing. It never seemed to follow him into the corporeal world – maybe that was for the better. Fundy already saw him as a nightmare. Tommy already looked at him like a monster. Phil already viewed him as a mistake.<br/>
Wilbur couldn’t place why they had such adverse reactions to his presence, but he didn’t want to make it any worse. Maybe Alive Wilbur was an awful person, maybe he’d already put them through hell and back. They didn’t deserve to deal with his shit for much longer. They didn’t need him.</p>
<p>Society had progressed past the need for Wilbur Soot. He would have laughed at that phrasing, years ago. Now, it just made him feel hollow. Would he ever be needed again? What was the point in existing if nobody needed him around...?</p>
<p>He felt himself float tentatively, hovering around nearly half a metre off the spruce landing of New L’Manberg. Wilbur had poured his afterlife into the start of the reconstruction of the nation. It was the least he could do – he knew he had something to make up for, after all. Surely, it didn’t matter that he didn’t quite remember what. All that mattered was that he was trying to be helpful now, right?</p>
<p>(The little persistent voice in his head said that no, he would never be enough for them. Alive Wilbur was a tyrant and a villain, and deep down, he knew it. Wilbur muffled the voices as best as he could, trying to ignore the rising panic that sparked and fizzled in his veins like firecrackers. Ignorance was bliss. Ignorance is bliss.)</p>
<p>With a resigned sigh, Wilbur retrieved a blank manuscript from his pocket, tucking it under his arm hastily. Perhaps he would run into someone who was willing to have a conversation, for once. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>As it turns out, the first person he bumped into was Quackity, of all people. Wilbur didn’t have much experience with the Secretary of State, though Tubbo kept trying to tell him about their shared history together. Wilbur cut him off every time, though – none of the memories were good, and Wilbur was never sure if he could handle them.<br/>
The man was sat looking out over the greater crater, surprisingly silent for once. Normally, he was running back and forth, always in the middle of some kind of master plan. Once, Wilbur had seen him run out of the newly erected burial site, clutching two bones and screaming about the afterlife. </p>
<p>He’d told Tubbo about it once, concerned for the nation’s security, just to be brushed off with a pitying look and a gentle ‘Don’t worry about it, Wilbur. We can handle it now.’ Wilbur wasn’t sure why those words stuck to his mind so irritably. Tubbo didn’t need him. Tubbo was President. And, chances are, Quackity didn’t need him either.<br/>
Tentatively, Wilbur hovered behind Quackity, before descending to sit beside him. He hadn’t noticed the ghost’s presence – actually, he looked deep in thought, an expression of melancholy resting on his face. Wilbur felt his chest clutch at the sight, for some reason.</p>
<p>“Hey, there,” the ghost spoke, voice wary. Quackity seemed to jump out of his skin, jolting in surprise at the sudden noise, before turning to stare down Wilbur’s image with a wary edge to his stare. Wilbur recoiled at his accidental fright, withdrawing into himself. He hadn’t meant to cause any stress, he’d just wanted to sit with a fellow L’Manbergian.</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s you,” the Secretary of State mumbled, turning to look over the ruins once more. Wilbur did the same, shuffling back to “sit” next to him. (He couldn’t really sit anymore, not really – the best he could do was float carefully atop the dirt and pretend.) Quackity eyed him out of the corner of his eye. “What do you want, Wilbur? Don’t you have fuckin'... ghost things to do?”<br/>
Wilbur was silent for a moment, a little shaken by the guarded tone his ally had. </p>
<p>“I thought I’d spend time with someone,” he said, voice wisping as usual as he let his eyes survey the mighty crater that laid before them. There were a few beats of silence before Wilbur spoke up again, hoping to start up a conversation. “It’s a shame what happened to L’Manberg,” he spoke, voice tinged with reminiscence. “Nobody’s told me who blew it up, yet. I wish I knew why they did it…”</p>
<p>Quackity seemed to bristle next to him, his fingers digging into the soft wood of the platform they sat upon. Wilbur looked at him in concern, worried he’d said something wrong.<br/>
“Are you okay? Your fingers might start bleeding—” Wilbur began, but Quackity had fixed a look of anger on his face, slightly bloodied pointer finger rising to shake accusingly in his direction. </p>
<p>“No, Wilbur, I’m not fucking okay!” the cabinet member hissed, spiteful words slipping through his barely opened mouth. Wilbur felt his chest stir unpleasantly as he drew away from the ghost, eyebrows furrowing into angry points. His past self had done something wrong to upset Quackity, but what? What had he done to make this man so defensive around him? Wilbur tried to recall, but the searches came up blank, the cursed emptiness ringing in his ears.</p>
<p>Quackity continued to speak before Wilbur could continue to process, his raspy whispers peaking in actual shouting.</p>
<p>“You have the fucking nerve to come here and act like my friend when you’re the reason that we’re in this mess, Wilbur!” he shouted, voice shaking. “You led me into your revolution, you pretended my input fucking mattered, you let me pretend you were my friend! And then – and then you blew it up, and you died, and <i>you have the guts to pretend you don’t know what happened</i>!”<br/>
Wilbur recoiled at that, eyes widening in surprise at the outburst. “I – I <i>don’t</i> know what happened, I –” his mind stilled as the words sank in slowly, and the ghost placed his hands on his head. “I don’t know what you think I did, but – I would never do anything like that, Quackity. I—”</p>
<p>“Well, you did!” the other man interrupted, eyes narrowed in blind anger. “You want to know who blew L’Manberg up? You did, Wilbur! It was all you! Everything is your fucking fault!” </p>
<p>… What?</p>
<p>
  <i>What?</i>
</p>
<p>Wilbur felt his limbs go numb as Quackity rose to his feet, hands grasping at his yellow sweater. No, the man must be lying, there was no way he’d do something that bad, right? He felt his chest stutter and heave unexpectedly, something icy and cold dribbling out of the fabric. No, no, no, he never started bleeding while on the corporeal plane, why was it happening now? Wilbur felt his mind fog with the haze of rapid-onset panic. The little voice in his mind was back now, louder than before, and this time, it sounded triumphant, and the sound of it made Wilbur want to scream.</p>
<p>(You’re a villain, it said, and Wilbur felt tears prick at his eyes as he finally recognised the voice as his own. You always have been. All you do is cause pain and suffering. These people don’t need you; they want you gone for good.)</p>
<p>The ghost’s form glitched and stuttered as he floated higher in the air. Quackity seemed to still, his narrowed eyes still furrowed and angry. Now, though, fear settled in his gaze, chilling to the core.<br/>
“Quackity, I— I don’t remember, I --” Wilbur finally found the energy to speak again, but his voice came out sounding like radio static as he choked on unshed tears, the syllables half-corrupted in the air. “I want to be good again,” he pleaded. “I can – I don’t know how, but I can – Please, Quackity. Let me earn your forgiveness.”</p>
<p>Forgiveness. That’s all Wilbur wanted. To be forgiven. To earn his place in the nation, to be needed, to be more than an empty shell of hatred and sadness and self-destructive tendencies. Wilbur wanted to feel warm again.</p>
<p>Instead of offering a hand of understanding, Quackity took a step backwards, eyes clouding with blind panic. His voice dropped into a terrifying register, every word like a bullet to Wilbur’s stomach.<br/>
“We don’t need your help anymore, Wilbur,” the man said, trembling visibly. “We don’t need you.”</p>
<p>At that, he turned, and he left, speeding away from the situation before Wilbur could even process the words.</p>
<p>(They don’t need you, the voice said. You’re causing them pain by sticking around; they don’t need the ghost of a terrorist trying to make amends.)</p>
<p>No. Wilbur wasn’t a terrorist. He could never even think of doing something as despicable as detonating his own country. The ghost crumpled in on himself, curling into a hovering ball. A sharp pain stabbed through his chest, and for a moment, Wilbur thought he was dying again, the suddenly opened river of ghost blood pouring out of his chest and splashing all down the front of his body. </p>
<p>He forced himself to open his eyes, trying to steady his suddenly shaky breathing. Ghosts didn’t breathe; they didn’t need oxygen – but for some reason, Wilbur’s shoulders were shuddering with the effort, his ethereal lungs shuddering and burning as if they’d just been skewered minutes ago. This wasn’t the end - Wilbur wasn’t too far gone as a ghost yet, he still had a chance of redemption. Wilbur just had to prove he could be alright again—</p>
<p>His thoughts were interrupted as he coughed harshly, and the icy blood splashed out of his mouth, pouring like a waterfall of despair. His throat felt like it was on fire. Everything felt like it was fire, and yet, it was so, so, cold.</p>
<p>(Why did death have to be so cold? Wilbur thought desperately, his hands clawing at his sweater in an attempt to ground himself in anything at all. His own mind spoke up again, ice and cockiness in its tone. <i>Because you deserve it.</i>)</p>
<p>Maybe he did deserve it, Wilbur thought. Maybe he was irredeemable. Maybe he’d never make up for his despicable actions. Wilbur shivered at the idea of fading out of existence, and violently shook his head. No, that wouldn’t happen. Quackity was grieving, Quackity was young. This didn’t have to be the end.</p>
<p>(This is the end, Wilbur, his own voice taunted. Lay down and accept our fate like I did.<br/>
<i>No</i>, Wilbur thought back. <i>I refuse to be you.</i>)</p>
<p>Quackity might believe Wilbur was better off fading, but the ghost had other plans. He shook as he righted himself in the air, blood caking his sweater grotesquely. Sure, the citizens may still see him as a monster, or a pity party, but that didn’t have to be the end of it. </p>
<p>And, yeah, he might not fully understand what Alive Wilbur did, or why people seem to hate him so much, but Wilbur knew one thing now. It was the one thing that his voice, or Quackity's distrust, or his bloodied past could not take away from him, and he would keep it in the forefront of his mind until the bitter end.</p>
<p>Wilbur Soot had a nation to rebuild.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>...i've been ghosting along.</p>
<p>(if you see a typo, no you don't. follow me on tumblr @general-light. you get a cookie if you figure out what the internal voice is supposed to represent.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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